Fireworks & Other Fears

I marvel that it’s that time of year again! Time to pull out the bins of patriotic décor and ready the house for Fourth of July. It’s a task I’ve always looked forward to—even during the COVID-19 pandemic when it seemed superfluous because everything, including fireworks, were cancelled. 

As I secure the yards of red, white, and blue buntings to the railing at the front of my house, I wave at a passing neighbor. He smiles and nods but doesn’t stop. His energetic puppy tugs on its leash, barks frenetically at him, keen on getting to the beach for a game of fetch or cooling swim. The pair streams past me, and the thread of a forgotten memory pops in, begging me to poke at it like one does with a snag on a sweater.

When my family first came to live in northwest Indiana, I was barely thirty and spectacularly pregnant with my third child. With two little girls under the age of three, I was desperate to potty-train Colleen, the oldest, before the new baby arrived. Small bribes like a trip to the ice cream parlor, a new troll doll, or watching an extra episode of Chip and Dale had proved mildly effective. 

Over dinner one night, my husband’s dark eyes danced from Colleen to me, and then back at her.

“If you go a whole week wearing your big girl panties,” Steve said, “we’ll get that puppy you’ve been wanting.” 

Colleen’s lips pursed into a round “o” of astonishment. It was as if she suddenly realized that the wish she had made upon a faraway star really could come true. In contrast, my mouth tightened into an incredulous line. During that time in our marriage, Steve was often out of town on business. So, the idea of managing three kids under three, potty training a stubborn toddler and housebreaking a puppy—alone—stunned me into silence. 

On some level, I grasped my husband’s logic. The puppy was a vehicle to make both of us happy. I would have one child out of diapers, and she’d get the dog she’d been badgering us about. I sighed, letting the moment pass. Part of me believed Colleen’s reluctance to get out of diapers would stick despite the tempting bonus. But Steve seemed determined to tantalize—okay, bribe—our recalcitrant daughter into becoming more self-sufficient. 

At mealtime, he picked up the habit of reading aloud from ads in the local newspaper. “Listen to this,” he’d boom, his eyes boring into Colleen’s. “Adorable black lab puppies for sale. Available now.”

Frowning, I’d wave him off. “She hasn’t made it a full day without an accident.”

But one evening, Colleen climbed out of her booster seat and went to stand by her father, scanning the paper as if she could read the words printed there.

“Does it say, Daddy, that they have Lassie dogs?” She peered up at him, her face calm and confident. “That’s what I want.”

Steve chuckled as he flicked me a startled glance that meant, how does she know about Lassie? That was our era, wasn’t it?

He pulled Colleen onto his lap, where she sat quietly, mesmerized by his finger scanning the newsprint.

“Well, will you look at that,” he beamed, hugging her in close. “Here’s a whole litter of collies available from a farm in La Porte.” 

As he read the ad aloud, her eyes glazed as if listening to a bedtime story. Then, she jumped down and ran to the bathroom in the back hall. When she returned, the brown eyes she’d inherited from her father gleamed with success. Steve assured her if she kept up the effort for six more days, he’d call the farmer about the puppies. 

One week later, I had a potty-trained three-year-old and an eight-week-old, sable and white male collie. 

“What should we name him?” I cooed as I held the soft bundle of cinnamon-colored fur. 

Steve and Colleen shared a smile. “She and I talked about that in the car after picking him out. He was born on the Fourth of July. We’re thinking Yankee, as in Yankee Doodle Dandy.” 

Besides the affection Yankee both craved and returned, the dog had a fiercely protective nature. He barked at the UPS truck, the garbage men, and the animals that cavorted across our property in the dark. Second in line to those threats, Yank hated the girls pedaling around on their tricycles in the driveway. Much like my neighbor whose dog dragged him to the beach, Yankee wouldn’t quit barking until he got what he wanted: the girls standing on their own two feet.

The other thing Yankee feared, something that reduced him to a pathetic whining heap of shivers and drool, were fireworks. Since the holiday, synonymous with big booms and streaks of sparkling color aligned with his birthday, it meant July Fourth was a hellish nightmare for all of us. 

We tried everything to settle Yank. Sequestering him in the laundry room or in the nearly soundproof basement didn’t work. When the vet prescribed medication, we caged him with his favorite toys, blanket, and dog pillow. Ultimately, what cured Yankee of his fear of fireworks was old age. When his hearing went, he couldn’t discern the things he feared the most: fireworks and thunder.

As I stow the empty bins of Independence Day decorations back in the storage area, I marvel at the things my kids and me have feared over the years. Them, afraid of spiders and snakes, creaks in the hallway outside their rooms, and tryouts for plays and sports teams. Later, they were anxious about black diamond ski runs, applying to colleges, and finding just the right internships and jobs. 

And then, I chuckle at my own expense. I still get rattled when a smoke detector goes off and needs a battery. More recently, I have become wary of escalators. This is due to a mishap riding an airport escalator involving two over-sized pink suitcases. I hope that these traumas will lessen with time like Yankee’s fear of fireworks. 

I take a tumbler of iced tea outside and admire my efforts with the patriotic buntings. When my neighbor passes by with his exhausted but satisfied lab pup, I think about old Yank again. I muse about how maturity cures us of the things that made us shiver and shake and cry out with alarm when we were younger. I debate about the tradeoff between being fearless and addled by anxieties. Just like the sun that is about to treat us with another magnificent Lake Michigan sunset, I reason that aging is a trajectory with which we have no control.  So, for now, I’m content with my trepidation concerning escalators because it means I’m still kinda “with it.” 

(a version of this column originally appeared in The Beacher Newspapers on 7-3-2024)

Follow Me Here

July 24-27: Julie will attend the Understory Writer’s Conference in Park City, Utah. This intimate conference organized by writers for writers will celebrate the art of storytelling with a focus on the natural environment.

July 29 and Aug. 20: Julie will be presenting an online webinar, “How to Use Journals in Crafting Memoir” for the Author Learning Center at 1:30 ET. Go here to register. 

Aug. 3-5 Julie was selected to present her book, Twice the Family, at the SIBA/NAIBA’s joint fall conference, “New Voices New Rooms,” in Atlanta on Aug. 4 from 5-6:30 ET. 

Aug. 13: Julie will join the Adoption Knowledge Affiliates Book Club at 7 PM CT to discuss Twice the Family.

Aug. 24-28: Julie will attend the HerSpirit Women’s Writing Retreat at the Chaminade Resort & Spa in Santa Cruz, CA organized by Story Summit.

Sept. 7: Julie will showcase her books at Printer’s Row LitFest on south Dearborn in downtown Chicago from 10-2 PM. Look for Julie in the Chicago Writer’s Association booth.

Other News

Twice the Family was named a finalist in the Parenting & Family category for the International Book Awards! 

Julie’s essay, “Bond Unbroken: Growing Up Adopted with My Twin” will appear in the July issue of Multiples Connection put out by Multiples of America Organization.

Follow Julie by visiting her website, subscribe to her bimonthly newsletters, and listen to previous podcast recordings where she discusses topics like adoption, identity, family relationships, sisterhood and belonging.

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